Encounterlogs
Illyanas Odd Encounter Sr Roger 240828
Illyana, a complex character wrestling with her darker tendencies, finds herself in the Black Rose Cafe, a haven from her internal turmoil. Alone with her thoughts, she experiences an ominous presence, a warmth that progresses into a suffocating sensation, hinting at a supernatural entity's interest in her. This entity, Gonthorian the Red, manifests through unsettling shadows and oppressive atmosphere, challenging Illyana's composure. Despite the eerie environment, Illyana displays a blend of annoyance and defiance, engaging in a silent conversation with the specter, mocking its subtlety and questioning its intentions. This encounter suggests a history of supernatural entanglements and highlights Illyana's resilience and familiarity with such otherworldly occurrences.
As the situation escalates, the cafe's atmosphere turns hostile, influenced by the malevolent force targeting Illyana. Patrons, under its spell, direct their aggression towards her, revealing the curse of persecution placed upon her. Alina, a character seemingly unaffected by the curse initially, expresses a sudden, unnatural anger towards Illyana, underscoring the curse's powerful reach. However, Alina's subsequent actions, a blend of confusion and loyalty, depict her as a beacon of innocence amidst the chaos. She attempts to defend Illyana, signaling a complex relationship between the two. The narrative culminates in Illyana's strategic retreat to the college, a sanctuary from the immediate threat. This move not only illustrates her tactical mindset but also her determination to seek solutions, setting the stage for a deeper exploration of the supernatural elements at play and the connections between the characters involved.
(Illyana's odd encounter(SRRoger):SRRoger)
[Thu Aug 22 2024]
In Black Rose Cafe
Large columns support the high ceiling which has
a large stained glass roof that, in the day time
at least, dapples the small cafe below in shades
of rosy reds, greens and dark gray shadows. Each
of the black painted columns are ornamented with
leafy vines that wind their way around them. The
walls are covered from ceiling down with crimson
lake hued wallpaper, embossed in a subtle raised
pattern of more of the blooms that lend the shop
its name. From roughly head height the wallpaper
gives way to darkly stained wood panelling which
then gives way to similar dark hard wood floors.
In the center of the room is a circular counter,
inside of which serves as the hub for the little
cafe that offers patrons a place to sit and read
while snacking or sipping on some coffee or tea.
It is night, about 69F(20C) degrees, There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Your target has been cursed with persecution, it is up to them to survive a world suddenly turned hostile until their allies can come and help get them to safety or deal with the curse.
)
Having woken early; Par for the course with still being on UK time even after over a month in the states, Illyana has already been to the gym, returned to the college campus to shower and change, and is now taking full advantage of the 24/7 nature of the Black Rose cafe to unwind. There is a lingering stress headache. A series of dreams and desires to visit violence that have been left, at least for now, unrequited. Illyana likes to think of herself as a non-violent person. Diplomatic and thoughtful, even, and yet... It would be so easy to go antagonize someone for shits and gigs. This though is the furthest thing from Illyana's desire right now. A newly awakened and only vaguely accepted aspect of character that is, for all of its inescapability, something kept tightly wound and abused only to her benefit-- Or at least, that's the plan. So for now, in the quiet of the early hours, where the college minions hired for minimum wage stack shelves, she sits, nursing a tea at a table and making a point of reigning in her -need- to ruin anyone elses day by being a sociopathic and arrogant trustfund baby with anger issues.
Illyana is alone here, at her table, lost in her day dreams of night terrors, and the memories they've left behind. The want for violence, and harm. The desire kept wound ever so tightly.
At least, she was alone.
It begins as a sensation- a creeping warmth that curls about the nape of her, intimate as a lover's breath. Yet, despite this warmth, her flesh begins to rise in goosebumps. It's easy to dismiss at first, this strange feeling. The sensation of being watched closely, so closely.
But soon it grows, as a shadow in the corner of her eyes. A movement. Something that slithers over the walls, and between the gaps in the books surrounding her. A weight that falls upon her, like a curtain dragging over marble.
It grows bolder yet, looming now. A presence that near pulses with malevolence, and warmth, and terrible intent. The air in her lungs is heavy, thick with the scent of burned ash, and woodsmoke. Of accelerant and grease. Of burning flesh.
This might not be an unfamiliar sensation for the woman, should she have spent anytime in the Great News Community Centre.
It is the looming spectre of Gonthorian the Red. The spectre of dread.
Sighing melodramatically, Illyana rolls her eyes behind the lenses of her sunglasses. There's a thinning of the lips
Sighing melodramatically, Illyana rolls her eyes behind the lenses of her sunglasses. There's a thinning of the lips; A sniff, the flicker of emotion that though fleeting reads 'I don't have time for you, peasant'. Then, schooled once more, she continues to drink her tea, the steam rising, the soothing nature of the beverage inhaled. A thought... It's vocalised, a mumbled half-whisper, taunting and abrasive as it is saccharine sweet. A petulant thing reserved for annoyances like this, where spiritual -things- dare to interupt her otherwise -productive- time. "Someone's trying to be subtle today." Innocuous enough, not obtrusive or antagonistic... yet. But it goes without saying for someone who's encountered the eidolon before. "No want to burn everything today?" The bohemian asks, hiding her features behind that mug, her fringe and her raised phone. "No visions of destroyed cars and immolated people. I'm impressed, Cuddles." -- For anyone who knows the brunette, it's clear to see that she'll not back down here. She has sanctuary from the thing, so the most it can do is provide an inconvenience or entertainment? So she allows this to go on. The scent in the air is an illusion. The chimeric dragon hasn't got the ability to influence the material world without one of its marked minions and Illyana already has some insight as to how that all works. "Waiting." she yawns, as if the dragon were some mouse and she were a cat. "What do you want, ant?"
Illyana is getting annoyed with this client
Illusions. Lies. Smoke and mirrors, and particularly heavy with the smoke. These are tools often used by the various eidolons that find themselves flocking to Haven like children to a Minecraft convention.
There's more though, of course, especially if said eidolon were to have a cult of followers, for example. The response to Illyana is one of lingering silence, for some small time. As that weight remains upon her. What does it want? What it always wants. To grow. To consume. To burn.
It may take Illyana a few moments to notice this, but those comments of hers aren't missed by the other people milling about in the bookstore. A few of them, in fact, turn toward her, more interested in her and her musings than they had been only moments earlier.
The shadow of the would-be dragon continues to shift about, always just out of sight. On the very peripherals of vision. There, but not there also. One person in particular, a younger boy with cherubic cheeks stares at Illyana, and in his eyes, should she look back? She might see the dancing flickers of flame.
There is magic in the air.
Illyana can taste it amidst the ash and smoke.
Alina makes her way into the cafe, having no idea what's going on. The bell on the door rings for a moment as she closes it behind her and glances around.
Illyana looks back at that child; Eyes obscured by the mirrored lenses of her sunglasses, subtle, of course, but still aware. She's perceptive enough to pick up on this. There's a flash of anger, though she says nothing, jaw tight, She takes note of the gathering, of course. The thing's braught playmates and she's not blind to the fact. A public place though. Less of an issue than there might be. And yet, she's ready to move, should she need. She's confident she could make the door faster than a good deal of these people, and in such a way as to cause no fuss or inconvenience. Venice is a significant factor here. And for once, the lingering spirit has proven itself capable of employing some degree of subtlety. Still no words. No motion. That can come later. Clearly the eidolon wants something or it would have already made a move. It's not that subtle, after all. Motivations of simply wishing to burn are, after all, as conspicuous as a snowflake in a Warhammer convention. Which is to say, laughed right on out.
Alina may not know what is going, but it doesn't take long until she knows that she's particularly upset with Illyana today. The woman's clothes annoy her, her face annoys her. The brooch she wears is annoying. More than annoying. It's upsetting. Gosh, even the way she breathes is an irritation. A spectre settles upon the younger woman the more time she spends near Illyana, a weight that drapes across her and churns at her stomach.
The young child that was staring at Illyana seems to share a thought shared by many of the others in the room, as they stare at her, "Why is the ugly woman here, mummy?" He asks, his lips twisting into an ugly snarl. The sort of expression that just looks wrong on a child.
Alina, the little slavegirl with no emotions can only blink at the sensations raging through her now. Her eyes lower to the ground as the anger churns inside of her and she doesn't recognise it, as foreign as it is. It does make her forehead knit together though as she stares around at the other patrons, never meeting their eyes or sweeping her eyes above their chins. The child snarling makes her stare at him curiously as if she rarely sees other children in this town. A hesistant step is taken, then another and Alina lowers her head as she walks up to Illyana. "Morning Miss Yana." She whispers softly, barely audible even to the woman infront of her. "Something is wrong. Horribly wrong." She adds as she hugs her arms.
Illyana offers a smile to Alina as she enters, though that expression freezes at the initial reaction. Sitting at a table alone, the bohemian doesn't respond. There's a pervasive sense of mounting anger there. Not directed at Alina, but to the shadows, apparently. Her expression is schooled though and though the gesture that offers Alina a chance to sit is more abrupt than usual, it's real enough. Though she's still not fully understanding what's happening, by the looks of it. She suspects though and her lips purse as though she's piecing something together. Raising her tea again, the bohemian says, barely above a whisper, again addressing seemingly the air, "Funny." Though this word is clipped, sharp. Void of humour. Then there's a concirted effort to put a more congenial, conversational tone back in place as she asks Alina "Oh? What's wrong, Poppet." the brunette enquires.
Something /is/ wrong. Something is very wrong, and it's right in front of Alina. The longer the young slavegirl lingers in the presence of the older woman, the more upset she becomes. No, not upset. Angry. It might be a new feeling to the young lady, but it's one that burns into life within her chest. Like the starting kick of a V8 engine roaring to life. Why is she angry? It doesn't manner, in the end, does it? The hostility ignites within her like gasoline for her combustion engine heart.
It isn't just Alina affected by this, it's most of those within the store. "Go back to where you're from!" One of the gentlemen in the back yells as he catches Illyana's accent. "Yeah, fuck off!" Another person adds to the rising tension in the room. There's muttering, and the clucking of tongues, and the distinct feeling that it wouldn't take much more than a strike of tinder for this budding situation to grow out of hand.
Tension fills Alina's body as she takes a seat opposite of Illyana and she has both shoulders hutched over. Today her raven black locks look like they've been freshly brushed and they hide the myraid of whip scars that trail down her throat but still, they can't veil the vibrating tension that rages through her. "I woke up looking forward to seeing Miss Yana." She whispers, almost curling up on herself. Her vivid emerald eyes usually able to stare at least to Illyana's chin is back to staring at the ground at her feet. "And when I walked in here... I feel. Strange. Upset. Like I want to.... to hit Miss Yana." No matter how much of the foreign sensation rages through her, Alina doesn't respond to it, react to it, having more than enough opportunies to experience the whip if she acts to something of her own accord. "It's growing." She whimpers softly, hugging her own arms as if she could somehow contain the feelings.
"You son of a bitch." Illyana's hair tosses, this statement addressed again at the shadows apparently. Her eyes sweep the room, and the bohemian sees -something- in their eyes. But she's a socialite. She's more than that, she shares a double heritage; Angel and demon, and this fills her with the desire for her to leave and the sufferingaround her. These two things war and if possible, she would likely be beginning a rampage right now, but unlike those around her, there is composure. That of someone used to being uncertain of where they end and something else begins. So as she sees this hostility-- One she apparently shares, without a visible source, she places her drink down, gathers her things and nods crisply to Alina. "I'm going to the college." she informs the girl in a tone barely above a whisper. - If she chooses to folow, that's on her. If not, Illyana has enough occult knowledge to isolate herself with the required reading material to research the problem given the context. And thus, she departs. The door is left open and she moves quickly-- Not inhumanly, but it's edging, with a grace above most others in the town-- More specifically, the normals. The question is, how far does she get? Inside the building is public. Outside is more public. But this all depends on how many obstructions Illyana finds on her way to her bike. Alina could follow, if she wanted, of course. Illyana is doing nothing to stop her. But neither is she trying to draw her into something that could threaten her-- And at the moment, everything is a threat.
There are few in the town of Haven with the resilience to the persecution curse that Alina has been exhibiting. This is made clearer yet as the young woman struggles, and Illyana makes her intent to leave clear. Flame flickering eyes watch her, follow her, and despite her doing as they had demanded, there is an escalation. A book is thrown at her retreating form, shattering the glass of the door and spraying her with shards.
How strange it must be for Illyana, to be in a room full of people desiring for her to come to harm. Their want building, and building until action is only a moment away. There's a snarling cheer of sorts as these people turn into a crowd, into a mob, nearly dragging Alina along with them as they start to follow the woman from the store, and along the street.
How much more sinister the shadows cast by the trees and streetlights must seem now, wicked and claw shaped as Illyana passes beneath them, with more and more people starting to join those following her. They start to yell. Things are thrown. It escalates as she makes her way toward her bike.
Alina goes along with the crowd. They're going towards Illyana. And she wanted to go to Illyana didn't she? She keeps her head down until the book is thrown, shattering the glass over the woman and she won't show anger to Illyana but she certainly felt angry. Angry enough to turn to the crowd. "Stop it!" She cries out, the loudest her voice has gone in a decade. "Miss Yana helped me when no one else would. Sh'"
Alina goes along with the crowd. They're going towards Illyana. And she wanted to go to Illyana didn't she? She keeps her head down until the book is thrown, shattering the glass over the woman and she won't show anger to Illyana but she certainly felt angry. Angry enough to turn to the crowd. "Stop it!" She cries out, the loudest her voice has gone in a decade. "Miss Yana helped me when no one else would. She's a good person! You're all mean! Go away!" She calls out, hugging herself as she does.
Illyana Then jumps onto her bike and gets ready to ride. There's composure, yes, but it's a, shell, and she's overwhelmed by the suffering that makes her jubilent and the conflicting desires around her. She will race off. That book thrown almost makes her pause. The shards cause bleading, but this isn't anything to Illyana. She's suffered far far worse. Is it painful? Unquestionably. Is it an impediment? Again, yes. It's dangerous, violent and entirely human. That's the problem. It is a human responce, so as Illyana leaps her bike and begins to rev it, she places a finger behind her ear and muttering, head bowed, she sends a quick report to her faction to send a cleanup crew of Shadows. It might go without comment otherwise, but there is notibly a standing mandate out for the eidolon's activity to be stopped, so the name, Gonthorian, will manage this. But of course, she still needs to move- and fast. But she doesn't do so just yet-- She will, but she's stalling those few seconds where passification can begin moving before she throttles. Every second counts.
Illyana slips her sunglasses off. She looks over to Alina. Is she waiting? But why? She should be riding...
Alina runs over to her bike, the green piece of junk after she shouts and mounts it, following after Illyana towards the short walk to college.
They don't stop. Why would they? Alina is small, and fragile looking, and most of all? She is wrong. This Illyana woman, whoever she is, is terrible. They all know this. They know it like they know the sky is blue, and the ocean is wet. It's baked into the very core of their grey-matter.
The girl is pushed, and pressed by the crowd, with a threat of being tramped being very real as they give chase to Illyana. The bike guns into life, and several of those in pursuit charge out into the street, trying to grab and clutch at Illyana's clothing and tear her off of the vehicle!
All the while the low sound of an amused, chuffing dragon echoes within Illyana's mind. "Puppets. Ants. This is your nature, to dance on strings, and whims." It's personal, this isn't the royal 'your', it can near smell the servitude in her blood.
Alina follows Illyana on her bike, not really sure what is happening and rather bewildered. Her emerald eyes show confusion as she tries to run over anyone while driving though, given the crowd it's a bit tricky.
Illyana Makes a puppet of her own; One that she plucks from the control of the eidolon with a thought and a momentary glance. It's nothing overly obtrusive. Not in the least. Only a moment of control, but poinient enough. It likely wont last, but it's enough for the bohemian and Alina to move away from the group and head to college. There's obvious ripping as she pulls away, but on reaching the institute, the bohemian doesn't wait. She runs, at full speed into and through the hall, past the chapple, down the path and into her sorority, where she locks herself in her room. Alina knows that room and could follow if she wanted, of course, but that was most certainly not part of anything the brunette had planned.
Alina stops once she's in college grounds, peering out behind her to see if anyone had followed. She doesn't follow Illyana. yet, simply standing off to the side in the reception as if to make sure there were no more persuers.
Thrumb thrumb.
That curse is an insidious thing, and it's worked it's way inside of Alina. Burrowed inside of her grey matter, and slithered down to climb betwixt her ribs, like they were a jungle gym. It's an ongoing war of burning desires now, and the battlefield is the poor girls mind itself. The hate rises like bile, even as Illyana serves to enthrall her for the time being.
Illyana manages to avoid the larger mass of the crowd, as many of them are stopped by the security of the institute, and held at bay. There's yelling, and shouting, of course, and at least one punch thrown - but the lead has been made, and Illyana is safely within her room for the time being.
A haven of sorts in this town, so aptly named. A sanctuary.
Yet, while dimished, the presence of the eidolon lingers upon her, like the ghost of a memory - like wisps of smoke.
Alina frowns as she sits down at the reception, not sure what to do with all these feelings which are surely not hers. Being a sensitive, she steps into people's shoes regularly as they cruely torture others and this was not her feelings. Her breath sighs out of her as she takes out her phone and she holds it as if looking for the answers of the universe on it.
Illyana needs to unwind. There was a lot there. Too much and already broken, the bohemian does have those lingering traces of two blood heritages that conflict. So first thing's first. She meditates on what is her and what is not. She then... goes to the art room and breaks someone's hard work with a sledgehammer... It's likely she shouldn't have one of those, but someone with angelborn strength and a lot of creativity can manage to visit this kind of violence-- and it's the White Oak institute, so it's just left to be so long as it doesn't break sanctuary. Then, her own feelings of rage and shame exausted, she moves to the supernatural psychology room, shuts the door and is talked through (with aid from the faction arcanists) how to perform the ritual to remove this curse. Then and only then, and conspicuously covered in clay dust, though absent a sledgehammer, she walks into the student union with a nod for Alina.
OOC - Thanks for playing folks. Where would you like to be dropped off?
(Someone in Haven has found out about the supernatural and is freaking out about it. They're at risk of exposing the secret, hurting themselves, or hurting others. Your target and their allies are tasked with containing the situation.
)
Currently, the pair of them are sat eating a spread of traditional russian breakfast food prepared by Rachel. A little bit of a special occasion, perhaps, judging by the effort put into it or perhaps just an opportunity to jazz things up for their morning meal. The two have just sat down to enjoy their food, and are now exchanging a mixture of veiled compliments and not-so-veiled jabs at eachother. Blissful.
Konstantin snorts, reaching for the next blini and scooping Rachel's discarded caviar onto its side. There'll be no waste here; Konstantin' love for the breakfast fare is made evident without words by his desire to eat as much of it as possible in as short a time as possible, but he nods aside with a chuckle at Rachel's request anyway. "More than. The best."
He reaches for the borscht then, filling his own bowl this time rather than dipping his pirozhki directly into the shared supply. "Is it a painting?", Konstantin asks, starting to guess what the surprise is. Waiting and seeing is troublesome, and he's had plenty of experience with interrogations. This time he's just trying to needle verbally rather than employing the pliers, though.
God. What a lovely morning. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping and the sweaty New England heat is finally starting to break. It's just early enough to get in a solid breakfast while not being so early that the claws of sleep still hook deep into the minds of waking ex-dreamers. A perfect morning. Even if it is a Thursday. What could there possibly be to ruin this? Nothing, absolutely nothing. Rachel's gotten it perfect this morning - like a dream. The borscht tastes just like Konstantin's Nana's, the blinis are are lush and the caviar hits that perfect balance of salt and richness.
No immediate operations on the horizon, no patrols that need doing. Rachel and Konstantin could stay here. Frozen in this sweet moment. Forever. Perfect. There's even presents! Gifts! How lovely!
Nothing perfect ever lasts.
The moment the last word, 'painting', leaves Konstantin's full mouth, your comms blare to life. Code Red. Code Red. comes the automated warning alarm. Possible exposure risk. Containment necessary. Possible exposure risk. Containment necessary. All available agents to Hart Avenue. All available-
And then a rough voice cuts in, not automated, but alive. And angry. "Rachel. Konstantin. One of our fucking vassals overfed on some bachelorettes at the club last night. One of them got out, ranting and raving about Demons and Vampires. She's heading down Hart, and she's drawing attention. Get there. Contain her. Do it -quietly-. MOVE, NOW!"
"No," Rachel says, ear-to-ear. The alarm overlays her voice. She stares at the ceiling as the instructions play out. Of course. Of course they'll never have a quiet moment. "I want to move to St. Petersburg," she tells Konstantin when it's done and over.
Still, she complies with the disembodied nuisance. "I'll get my shoes." He's left on the stool to cram however much breakfast he can into his gullet before they go.
Distanced, begrudging: "...And my helmet."
A hop takes her into Konstantin's eyeline again. She's pulling her shoes on, fast, so that they can flit off with urgency. "You're slow," she needles him.
In fairness, her speed might have something to do with the fact that she doesn't gear up. No guns, no armor, nothing. Either she's suicidal, or she relies on something else in her kit.
"Blyaaat", Konstantin groans, eyes scanning the breakfast sorrowfully, as though if he leaves to take care of business someone is going to come in and steal the lot. More realistically it'll just get cold, which is ALSO TERRIBLE. Whoever is causing this mess is going to -pay-. Quickly, the blini disappear, and then his bowl of borscht is lifted, mostly drained of broth before he scrapes any solids into his mouth with the help of his fingers (don't judge, he's in a rush). He grabs a pair of pirozhki and launches himself to his feet, not too long after Rachel returns. "Good", Konstantin offers simply in reponse to spotting the helmet. Finally. He's gotten through to her.
Round the corner, down the corridor, and into his room he goes, procuring a tranquiliser gun and a few darts from a box in the cabinets of his bedroom. No need for armour here; instagram follower counts don't do much against supernaturally reinforced bones. He heads for the door, sans any helmet of his own, throwing it open and looking back to Rachel. "Time to earn your keep for a change, hm?", he muses with a bounce of his brows.
Down they go and out to the street, dartgun stuffed into the back of his waistband and darts in his pocket with their plastic safety caps on, out to his bike. On they get, Rachel presumably helmetted? and begin whizzing their way down to Hart.
"Maybe I'll throw /you/ off the balcony," Rachel threatens Konstantin. It implies - perhaps erroneously - that he's dropped her from the third floor landing at some point. This is healthy. This is how people should talk to each other. "I earn my keep," she argues as she tails him. "Did I not help you with that guy with the thing?" Vague. Maybe she doesn't even know what she's talking about and is hoping that Konstantin will fill in the blanks. Surely she's assisted somewhere, somehow.
But yeah, helmet's on, the snap button pressed in with a very, very rebellious 'pop.' 'Wear your helmet,' she's probably grousing internally. 'Do work.' Ridiculous. 'Be useful.' Maybe Konstantin doesn't deserve nice breakfasts.
Can't be that mad, though, if she's still smiling by the time they're on Hart.
As the situation escalates, the cafe's atmosphere turns hostile, influenced by the malevolent force targeting Illyana. Patrons, under its spell, direct their aggression towards her, revealing the curse of persecution placed upon her. Alina, a character seemingly unaffected by the curse initially, expresses a sudden, unnatural anger towards Illyana, underscoring the curse's powerful reach. However, Alina's subsequent actions, a blend of confusion and loyalty, depict her as a beacon of innocence amidst the chaos. She attempts to defend Illyana, signaling a complex relationship between the two. The narrative culminates in Illyana's strategic retreat to the college, a sanctuary from the immediate threat. This move not only illustrates her tactical mindset but also her determination to seek solutions, setting the stage for a deeper exploration of the supernatural elements at play and the connections between the characters involved.
(Illyana's odd encounter(SRRoger):SRRoger)
[Thu Aug 22 2024]
In Black Rose Cafe
Large columns support the high ceiling which has
a large stained glass roof that, in the day time
at least, dapples the small cafe below in shades
of rosy reds, greens and dark gray shadows. Each
of the black painted columns are ornamented with
leafy vines that wind their way around them. The
walls are covered from ceiling down with crimson
lake hued wallpaper, embossed in a subtle raised
pattern of more of the blooms that lend the shop
its name. From roughly head height the wallpaper
gives way to darkly stained wood panelling which
then gives way to similar dark hard wood floors.
In the center of the room is a circular counter,
inside of which serves as the hub for the little
cafe that offers patrons a place to sit and read
while snacking or sipping on some coffee or tea.
It is night, about 69F(20C) degrees, There is a waning gibbous moon.
(Your target has been cursed with persecution, it is up to them to survive a world suddenly turned hostile until their allies can come and help get them to safety or deal with the curse.
)
Having woken early; Par for the course with still being on UK time even after over a month in the states, Illyana has already been to the gym, returned to the college campus to shower and change, and is now taking full advantage of the 24/7 nature of the Black Rose cafe to unwind. There is a lingering stress headache. A series of dreams and desires to visit violence that have been left, at least for now, unrequited. Illyana likes to think of herself as a non-violent person. Diplomatic and thoughtful, even, and yet... It would be so easy to go antagonize someone for shits and gigs. This though is the furthest thing from Illyana's desire right now. A newly awakened and only vaguely accepted aspect of character that is, for all of its inescapability, something kept tightly wound and abused only to her benefit-- Or at least, that's the plan. So for now, in the quiet of the early hours, where the college minions hired for minimum wage stack shelves, she sits, nursing a tea at a table and making a point of reigning in her -need- to ruin anyone elses day by being a sociopathic and arrogant trustfund baby with anger issues.
Illyana is alone here, at her table, lost in her day dreams of night terrors, and the memories they've left behind. The want for violence, and harm. The desire kept wound ever so tightly.
At least, she was alone.
It begins as a sensation- a creeping warmth that curls about the nape of her, intimate as a lover's breath. Yet, despite this warmth, her flesh begins to rise in goosebumps. It's easy to dismiss at first, this strange feeling. The sensation of being watched closely, so closely.
But soon it grows, as a shadow in the corner of her eyes. A movement. Something that slithers over the walls, and between the gaps in the books surrounding her. A weight that falls upon her, like a curtain dragging over marble.
It grows bolder yet, looming now. A presence that near pulses with malevolence, and warmth, and terrible intent. The air in her lungs is heavy, thick with the scent of burned ash, and woodsmoke. Of accelerant and grease. Of burning flesh.
This might not be an unfamiliar sensation for the woman, should she have spent anytime in the Great News Community Centre.
It is the looming spectre of Gonthorian the Red. The spectre of dread.
Sighing melodramatically, Illyana rolls her eyes behind the lenses of her sunglasses. There's a thinning of the lips
Sighing melodramatically, Illyana rolls her eyes behind the lenses of her sunglasses. There's a thinning of the lips; A sniff, the flicker of emotion that though fleeting reads 'I don't have time for you, peasant'. Then, schooled once more, she continues to drink her tea, the steam rising, the soothing nature of the beverage inhaled. A thought... It's vocalised, a mumbled half-whisper, taunting and abrasive as it is saccharine sweet. A petulant thing reserved for annoyances like this, where spiritual -things- dare to interupt her otherwise -productive- time. "Someone's trying to be subtle today." Innocuous enough, not obtrusive or antagonistic... yet. But it goes without saying for someone who's encountered the eidolon before. "No want to burn everything today?" The bohemian asks, hiding her features behind that mug, her fringe and her raised phone. "No visions of destroyed cars and immolated people. I'm impressed, Cuddles." -- For anyone who knows the brunette, it's clear to see that she'll not back down here. She has sanctuary from the thing, so the most it can do is provide an inconvenience or entertainment? So she allows this to go on. The scent in the air is an illusion. The chimeric dragon hasn't got the ability to influence the material world without one of its marked minions and Illyana already has some insight as to how that all works. "Waiting." she yawns, as if the dragon were some mouse and she were a cat. "What do you want, ant?"
Illyana is getting annoyed with this client
Illusions. Lies. Smoke and mirrors, and particularly heavy with the smoke. These are tools often used by the various eidolons that find themselves flocking to Haven like children to a Minecraft convention.
There's more though, of course, especially if said eidolon were to have a cult of followers, for example. The response to Illyana is one of lingering silence, for some small time. As that weight remains upon her. What does it want? What it always wants. To grow. To consume. To burn.
It may take Illyana a few moments to notice this, but those comments of hers aren't missed by the other people milling about in the bookstore. A few of them, in fact, turn toward her, more interested in her and her musings than they had been only moments earlier.
The shadow of the would-be dragon continues to shift about, always just out of sight. On the very peripherals of vision. There, but not there also. One person in particular, a younger boy with cherubic cheeks stares at Illyana, and in his eyes, should she look back? She might see the dancing flickers of flame.
There is magic in the air.
Illyana can taste it amidst the ash and smoke.
Alina makes her way into the cafe, having no idea what's going on. The bell on the door rings for a moment as she closes it behind her and glances around.
Illyana looks back at that child; Eyes obscured by the mirrored lenses of her sunglasses, subtle, of course, but still aware. She's perceptive enough to pick up on this. There's a flash of anger, though she says nothing, jaw tight, She takes note of the gathering, of course. The thing's braught playmates and she's not blind to the fact. A public place though. Less of an issue than there might be. And yet, she's ready to move, should she need. She's confident she could make the door faster than a good deal of these people, and in such a way as to cause no fuss or inconvenience. Venice is a significant factor here. And for once, the lingering spirit has proven itself capable of employing some degree of subtlety. Still no words. No motion. That can come later. Clearly the eidolon wants something or it would have already made a move. It's not that subtle, after all. Motivations of simply wishing to burn are, after all, as conspicuous as a snowflake in a Warhammer convention. Which is to say, laughed right on out.
Alina may not know what is going, but it doesn't take long until she knows that she's particularly upset with Illyana today. The woman's clothes annoy her, her face annoys her. The brooch she wears is annoying. More than annoying. It's upsetting. Gosh, even the way she breathes is an irritation. A spectre settles upon the younger woman the more time she spends near Illyana, a weight that drapes across her and churns at her stomach.
The young child that was staring at Illyana seems to share a thought shared by many of the others in the room, as they stare at her, "Why is the ugly woman here, mummy?" He asks, his lips twisting into an ugly snarl. The sort of expression that just looks wrong on a child.
Alina, the little slavegirl with no emotions can only blink at the sensations raging through her now. Her eyes lower to the ground as the anger churns inside of her and she doesn't recognise it, as foreign as it is. It does make her forehead knit together though as she stares around at the other patrons, never meeting their eyes or sweeping her eyes above their chins. The child snarling makes her stare at him curiously as if she rarely sees other children in this town. A hesistant step is taken, then another and Alina lowers her head as she walks up to Illyana. "Morning Miss Yana." She whispers softly, barely audible even to the woman infront of her. "Something is wrong. Horribly wrong." She adds as she hugs her arms.
Illyana offers a smile to Alina as she enters, though that expression freezes at the initial reaction. Sitting at a table alone, the bohemian doesn't respond. There's a pervasive sense of mounting anger there. Not directed at Alina, but to the shadows, apparently. Her expression is schooled though and though the gesture that offers Alina a chance to sit is more abrupt than usual, it's real enough. Though she's still not fully understanding what's happening, by the looks of it. She suspects though and her lips purse as though she's piecing something together. Raising her tea again, the bohemian says, barely above a whisper, again addressing seemingly the air, "Funny." Though this word is clipped, sharp. Void of humour. Then there's a concirted effort to put a more congenial, conversational tone back in place as she asks Alina "Oh? What's wrong, Poppet." the brunette enquires.
Something /is/ wrong. Something is very wrong, and it's right in front of Alina. The longer the young slavegirl lingers in the presence of the older woman, the more upset she becomes. No, not upset. Angry. It might be a new feeling to the young lady, but it's one that burns into life within her chest. Like the starting kick of a V8 engine roaring to life. Why is she angry? It doesn't manner, in the end, does it? The hostility ignites within her like gasoline for her combustion engine heart.
It isn't just Alina affected by this, it's most of those within the store. "Go back to where you're from!" One of the gentlemen in the back yells as he catches Illyana's accent. "Yeah, fuck off!" Another person adds to the rising tension in the room. There's muttering, and the clucking of tongues, and the distinct feeling that it wouldn't take much more than a strike of tinder for this budding situation to grow out of hand.
Tension fills Alina's body as she takes a seat opposite of Illyana and she has both shoulders hutched over. Today her raven black locks look like they've been freshly brushed and they hide the myraid of whip scars that trail down her throat but still, they can't veil the vibrating tension that rages through her. "I woke up looking forward to seeing Miss Yana." She whispers, almost curling up on herself. Her vivid emerald eyes usually able to stare at least to Illyana's chin is back to staring at the ground at her feet. "And when I walked in here... I feel. Strange. Upset. Like I want to.... to hit Miss Yana." No matter how much of the foreign sensation rages through her, Alina doesn't respond to it, react to it, having more than enough opportunies to experience the whip if she acts to something of her own accord. "It's growing." She whimpers softly, hugging her own arms as if she could somehow contain the feelings.
"You son of a bitch." Illyana's hair tosses, this statement addressed again at the shadows apparently. Her eyes sweep the room, and the bohemian sees -something- in their eyes. But she's a socialite. She's more than that, she shares a double heritage; Angel and demon, and this fills her with the desire for her to leave and the sufferingaround her. These two things war and if possible, she would likely be beginning a rampage right now, but unlike those around her, there is composure. That of someone used to being uncertain of where they end and something else begins. So as she sees this hostility-- One she apparently shares, without a visible source, she places her drink down, gathers her things and nods crisply to Alina. "I'm going to the college." she informs the girl in a tone barely above a whisper. - If she chooses to folow, that's on her. If not, Illyana has enough occult knowledge to isolate herself with the required reading material to research the problem given the context. And thus, she departs. The door is left open and she moves quickly-- Not inhumanly, but it's edging, with a grace above most others in the town-- More specifically, the normals. The question is, how far does she get? Inside the building is public. Outside is more public. But this all depends on how many obstructions Illyana finds on her way to her bike. Alina could follow, if she wanted, of course. Illyana is doing nothing to stop her. But neither is she trying to draw her into something that could threaten her-- And at the moment, everything is a threat.
There are few in the town of Haven with the resilience to the persecution curse that Alina has been exhibiting. This is made clearer yet as the young woman struggles, and Illyana makes her intent to leave clear. Flame flickering eyes watch her, follow her, and despite her doing as they had demanded, there is an escalation. A book is thrown at her retreating form, shattering the glass of the door and spraying her with shards.
How strange it must be for Illyana, to be in a room full of people desiring for her to come to harm. Their want building, and building until action is only a moment away. There's a snarling cheer of sorts as these people turn into a crowd, into a mob, nearly dragging Alina along with them as they start to follow the woman from the store, and along the street.
How much more sinister the shadows cast by the trees and streetlights must seem now, wicked and claw shaped as Illyana passes beneath them, with more and more people starting to join those following her. They start to yell. Things are thrown. It escalates as she makes her way toward her bike.
Alina goes along with the crowd. They're going towards Illyana. And she wanted to go to Illyana didn't she? She keeps her head down until the book is thrown, shattering the glass over the woman and she won't show anger to Illyana but she certainly felt angry. Angry enough to turn to the crowd. "Stop it!" She cries out, the loudest her voice has gone in a decade. "Miss Yana helped me when no one else would. Sh'"
Alina goes along with the crowd. They're going towards Illyana. And she wanted to go to Illyana didn't she? She keeps her head down until the book is thrown, shattering the glass over the woman and she won't show anger to Illyana but she certainly felt angry. Angry enough to turn to the crowd. "Stop it!" She cries out, the loudest her voice has gone in a decade. "Miss Yana helped me when no one else would. She's a good person! You're all mean! Go away!" She calls out, hugging herself as she does.
Illyana Then jumps onto her bike and gets ready to ride. There's composure, yes, but it's a, shell, and she's overwhelmed by the suffering that makes her jubilent and the conflicting desires around her. She will race off. That book thrown almost makes her pause. The shards cause bleading, but this isn't anything to Illyana. She's suffered far far worse. Is it painful? Unquestionably. Is it an impediment? Again, yes. It's dangerous, violent and entirely human. That's the problem. It is a human responce, so as Illyana leaps her bike and begins to rev it, she places a finger behind her ear and muttering, head bowed, she sends a quick report to her faction to send a cleanup crew of Shadows. It might go without comment otherwise, but there is notibly a standing mandate out for the eidolon's activity to be stopped, so the name, Gonthorian, will manage this. But of course, she still needs to move- and fast. But she doesn't do so just yet-- She will, but she's stalling those few seconds where passification can begin moving before she throttles. Every second counts.
Illyana slips her sunglasses off. She looks over to Alina. Is she waiting? But why? She should be riding...
Alina runs over to her bike, the green piece of junk after she shouts and mounts it, following after Illyana towards the short walk to college.
They don't stop. Why would they? Alina is small, and fragile looking, and most of all? She is wrong. This Illyana woman, whoever she is, is terrible. They all know this. They know it like they know the sky is blue, and the ocean is wet. It's baked into the very core of their grey-matter.
The girl is pushed, and pressed by the crowd, with a threat of being tramped being very real as they give chase to Illyana. The bike guns into life, and several of those in pursuit charge out into the street, trying to grab and clutch at Illyana's clothing and tear her off of the vehicle!
All the while the low sound of an amused, chuffing dragon echoes within Illyana's mind. "Puppets. Ants. This is your nature, to dance on strings, and whims." It's personal, this isn't the royal 'your', it can near smell the servitude in her blood.
Alina follows Illyana on her bike, not really sure what is happening and rather bewildered. Her emerald eyes show confusion as she tries to run over anyone while driving though, given the crowd it's a bit tricky.
Illyana Makes a puppet of her own; One that she plucks from the control of the eidolon with a thought and a momentary glance. It's nothing overly obtrusive. Not in the least. Only a moment of control, but poinient enough. It likely wont last, but it's enough for the bohemian and Alina to move away from the group and head to college. There's obvious ripping as she pulls away, but on reaching the institute, the bohemian doesn't wait. She runs, at full speed into and through the hall, past the chapple, down the path and into her sorority, where she locks herself in her room. Alina knows that room and could follow if she wanted, of course, but that was most certainly not part of anything the brunette had planned.
Alina stops once she's in college grounds, peering out behind her to see if anyone had followed. She doesn't follow Illyana. yet, simply standing off to the side in the reception as if to make sure there were no more persuers.
Thrumb thrumb.
That curse is an insidious thing, and it's worked it's way inside of Alina. Burrowed inside of her grey matter, and slithered down to climb betwixt her ribs, like they were a jungle gym. It's an ongoing war of burning desires now, and the battlefield is the poor girls mind itself. The hate rises like bile, even as Illyana serves to enthrall her for the time being.
Illyana manages to avoid the larger mass of the crowd, as many of them are stopped by the security of the institute, and held at bay. There's yelling, and shouting, of course, and at least one punch thrown - but the lead has been made, and Illyana is safely within her room for the time being.
A haven of sorts in this town, so aptly named. A sanctuary.
Yet, while dimished, the presence of the eidolon lingers upon her, like the ghost of a memory - like wisps of smoke.
Alina frowns as she sits down at the reception, not sure what to do with all these feelings which are surely not hers. Being a sensitive, she steps into people's shoes regularly as they cruely torture others and this was not her feelings. Her breath sighs out of her as she takes out her phone and she holds it as if looking for the answers of the universe on it.
Illyana needs to unwind. There was a lot there. Too much and already broken, the bohemian does have those lingering traces of two blood heritages that conflict. So first thing's first. She meditates on what is her and what is not. She then... goes to the art room and breaks someone's hard work with a sledgehammer... It's likely she shouldn't have one of those, but someone with angelborn strength and a lot of creativity can manage to visit this kind of violence-- and it's the White Oak institute, so it's just left to be so long as it doesn't break sanctuary. Then, her own feelings of rage and shame exausted, she moves to the supernatural psychology room, shuts the door and is talked through (with aid from the faction arcanists) how to perform the ritual to remove this curse. Then and only then, and conspicuously covered in clay dust, though absent a sledgehammer, she walks into the student union with a nod for Alina.
OOC - Thanks for playing folks. Where would you like to be dropped off?
(Someone in Haven has found out about the supernatural and is freaking out about it. They're at risk of exposing the secret, hurting themselves, or hurting others. Your target and their allies are tasked with containing the situation.
)
Currently, the pair of them are sat eating a spread of traditional russian breakfast food prepared by Rachel. A little bit of a special occasion, perhaps, judging by the effort put into it or perhaps just an opportunity to jazz things up for their morning meal. The two have just sat down to enjoy their food, and are now exchanging a mixture of veiled compliments and not-so-veiled jabs at eachother. Blissful.
Konstantin snorts, reaching for the next blini and scooping Rachel's discarded caviar onto its side. There'll be no waste here; Konstantin' love for the breakfast fare is made evident without words by his desire to eat as much of it as possible in as short a time as possible, but he nods aside with a chuckle at Rachel's request anyway. "More than. The best."
He reaches for the borscht then, filling his own bowl this time rather than dipping his pirozhki directly into the shared supply. "Is it a painting?", Konstantin asks, starting to guess what the surprise is. Waiting and seeing is troublesome, and he's had plenty of experience with interrogations. This time he's just trying to needle verbally rather than employing the pliers, though.
God. What a lovely morning. The sun is shining, the birds are chirping and the sweaty New England heat is finally starting to break. It's just early enough to get in a solid breakfast while not being so early that the claws of sleep still hook deep into the minds of waking ex-dreamers. A perfect morning. Even if it is a Thursday. What could there possibly be to ruin this? Nothing, absolutely nothing. Rachel's gotten it perfect this morning - like a dream. The borscht tastes just like Konstantin's Nana's, the blinis are are lush and the caviar hits that perfect balance of salt and richness.
No immediate operations on the horizon, no patrols that need doing. Rachel and Konstantin could stay here. Frozen in this sweet moment. Forever. Perfect. There's even presents! Gifts! How lovely!
Nothing perfect ever lasts.
The moment the last word, 'painting', leaves Konstantin's full mouth, your comms blare to life. Code Red. Code Red. comes the automated warning alarm. Possible exposure risk. Containment necessary. Possible exposure risk. Containment necessary. All available agents to Hart Avenue. All available-
And then a rough voice cuts in, not automated, but alive. And angry. "Rachel. Konstantin. One of our fucking vassals overfed on some bachelorettes at the club last night. One of them got out, ranting and raving about Demons and Vampires. She's heading down Hart, and she's drawing attention. Get there. Contain her. Do it -quietly-. MOVE, NOW!"
"No," Rachel says, ear-to-ear. The alarm overlays her voice. She stares at the ceiling as the instructions play out. Of course. Of course they'll never have a quiet moment. "I want to move to St. Petersburg," she tells Konstantin when it's done and over.
Still, she complies with the disembodied nuisance. "I'll get my shoes." He's left on the stool to cram however much breakfast he can into his gullet before they go.
Distanced, begrudging: "...And my helmet."
A hop takes her into Konstantin's eyeline again. She's pulling her shoes on, fast, so that they can flit off with urgency. "You're slow," she needles him.
In fairness, her speed might have something to do with the fact that she doesn't gear up. No guns, no armor, nothing. Either she's suicidal, or she relies on something else in her kit.
"Blyaaat", Konstantin groans, eyes scanning the breakfast sorrowfully, as though if he leaves to take care of business someone is going to come in and steal the lot. More realistically it'll just get cold, which is ALSO TERRIBLE. Whoever is causing this mess is going to -pay-. Quickly, the blini disappear, and then his bowl of borscht is lifted, mostly drained of broth before he scrapes any solids into his mouth with the help of his fingers (don't judge, he's in a rush). He grabs a pair of pirozhki and launches himself to his feet, not too long after Rachel returns. "Good", Konstantin offers simply in reponse to spotting the helmet. Finally. He's gotten through to her.
Round the corner, down the corridor, and into his room he goes, procuring a tranquiliser gun and a few darts from a box in the cabinets of his bedroom. No need for armour here; instagram follower counts don't do much against supernaturally reinforced bones. He heads for the door, sans any helmet of his own, throwing it open and looking back to Rachel. "Time to earn your keep for a change, hm?", he muses with a bounce of his brows.
Down they go and out to the street, dartgun stuffed into the back of his waistband and darts in his pocket with their plastic safety caps on, out to his bike. On they get, Rachel presumably helmetted? and begin whizzing their way down to Hart.
"Maybe I'll throw /you/ off the balcony," Rachel threatens Konstantin. It implies - perhaps erroneously - that he's dropped her from the third floor landing at some point. This is healthy. This is how people should talk to each other. "I earn my keep," she argues as she tails him. "Did I not help you with that guy with the thing?" Vague. Maybe she doesn't even know what she's talking about and is hoping that Konstantin will fill in the blanks. Surely she's assisted somewhere, somehow.
But yeah, helmet's on, the snap button pressed in with a very, very rebellious 'pop.' 'Wear your helmet,' she's probably grousing internally. 'Do work.' Ridiculous. 'Be useful.' Maybe Konstantin doesn't deserve nice breakfasts.
Can't be that mad, though, if she's still smiling by the time they're on Hart.